James Grippando - When Darkness Falls

“Look,” said the director, “the guy has already shot two officers, killed one. It appears that he’s wounded one hostage. It makes no sense to send in a negotiator with a civilian in the hope that a known killer has suddenly lost his itchy trigger finger.”

“We’re not sending anybody in,” said Vince. “The deal is that he puts the injured girl outside the door. Then Swyteck and I go and get her. We never set foot inside the motel room.”

Chavez said, “I like the first part of that plan. When he opens the door and lays the girl on the stoop, that’s our chance to take him out.”

Renfro said, “What’s the likelihood of success on that shot?”

Chavez deferred to his lead sniper, who answered in a thoughtful monotone and without any sense of arrogance. It was simply the best judgment from a highly trained professional who fully understood the gravity of his work. “Subject in the open doorway. Girl on the ground. He’ll probably be moving quickly, perhaps even erratically, since we are dealing with an agitated and clinically paranoid subject. Definitely won’t be standing still. Second story of the apartment building directly across the street offers the clearest line of sight. Distance is just about one hundred yards. Slight angle should have only minimal adverse impact on bullet trajectory. We do have rain and wind to contend with. Unless this rainstorm turns into a hurricane, I’d say we’re close to a sure thing here.”

Renfro said, “I don’t want to wing him now. Last thing we need is for him to go back inside and tear into those hostages like a wounded animal.”

“Understood,” said the sniper. “I’m talking about a kill shot to the head.”

Vince said, “Nothing’s a sure thing. Any attempted takeout brings a chance of dead hostages.”

“We breach at the crack of the sniper fire,” said the director. “If the shot doesn’t take him out, we will.”

“No offense,” said Vince, “but that won’t do much good, unless your team can fly faster than one of Falcon’s speeding bullets.”

The SWAT leader spoke up. “You’d be surprised how quickly we can move. We’ve been studying the blueprints. There’s a maid-ser vice hallway that runs directly behind the rooms on this eastern wing of the motel. We can cut through the back wall. It’s just sheet rock on studs. Conservatively speaking, we should be able to position a team as close as two rooms away without Falcon ever knowing we’re there.”

“If he hears you cutting through walls, it’s disaster,” said Vince.

“He won’t hear us.”

“And what if he comes to the door with a hostage in tow?”

“Then we’ll respond accordingly,” said Chavez.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ve done this before. We adapt.”

Vince could have debated that point, but he knew when he was outnumbered. In truth, he didn’t totally disagree with the strategy. He hoped it was because they were right. He feared that it was because of the way things had gone so horribly wrong the last time, his disastrous face-to-face confrontation with that monster who had stolen a five-year-old girl, and then stolen Vince’s eyesight.

“You on board, Paulo?” asked the chief.

Vince didn’t answer right away.

“Paulo, you with us?”

“Yeah,” he said without much enthusiasm. “I’m all in.”

“Good,” said Renfro. “Then proceed as planned. Tell Falcon to bring the girl to the door, and give him every assurance that you and Swyteck will come and pick her up. Any questions?” The mobile command center was silent. “Excellent,” said Renfro. “Good luck, team.”

Vince ended the call. The SWAT members headed toward the door. Chavez was the last to leave. He stopped on his way out, laid a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Look at the bright side, Paulo. Falcon won’t live long enough to know you lied to him.”

Vince couldn’t tell if it was a bad joke or if Chavez was just being a total jerk. He gave him the benefit of the doubt by simply not responding. He turned, walked the familiar path back to his chair, and was about to take a seat when he heard radio squelch in his headset. He adjusted the earpiece, and the voice came clear.

“Sergeant Paulo, you there?”

Vince didn’t recognize the speaker. “Paulo here. Who’s this?”

“Officer Garcia, perimeter control.”

“Go ahead.”

“Got a little situation here at Biscayne and Seventeenth.”

Rookies, thought Vince. He couldn’t imagine why it took the lead negotiator to handle perimeter control, but he wasn’t too harsh in his response. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle, Garcia.”

“Actually, sir, it’s a little complicated. There’s someone here who insists on seeing you.”

“Who is it?”

“Wouldn’t give me a name, says it wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway. But she says she can definitely be of help to you.”

Vince was tired, stress was high, and this interruption seemed so inane that he was on the verge of losing his temper. “Tell her we don’t need any help, thank you.”

“She says she knows who Falcon is.”

“She does, does she?”

“Yeah. I hear your skepticism. I didn’t put much credence in it either, and I wasn’t even going to bother you with it. Except that she has something that she wants to give you.”

“What is it?”

The cop paused, as if taking care not to be overheard by any bystanders. “Looks to be about two hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”

The rookie suddenly had Vince’s undivided attention. “Bring her in right away,” said Vince. “Tell her that I’d be delighted to speak with her.”

A licia made it from downtown Miami to Coconut Grove in record time. The last time she’d been in such a hurry to reach 311 Royal Poinciana Court, she was seventeen years old, it was three a.m., and her fake ID had worked like a charm on South Beach. This afternoon, the circumstances could not have been more different. The charming Mediterranean-style villa was no longer where she lived, of course, though she’d probably heard it from her parents a thousand different times, a hundred different ways, that it felt so much more like home whenever she came to visit. She understood that sentiment perfectly. This old house was where she’d grown up. It was filled with memories of birthday parties, sleepovers, after-school snacks, skinned knees, girl talk, and boy troubles. It was like a giant box filled with all the hopes and dreams that marked her journey from daddy’s girl to womanhood. She’d scored a thousand soccer goals in the yard with her father as goalie. She’d practically killed her mother in the living room for trying to “fix” her hair five minutes before her prom date arrived. It was a cliché to say that not every house was a home, but this one brimmed with the kind of endless love and inevitable parental overkill that an only child could either understand or endure. For a moment, Alicia felt like she was a kid again as she sat directly across the kitchen table from her mother.

Another part of her, however, felt more like a cop.

“Why the oh-so-serious expression?” her mother said.

Alicia was a tangle of emotional knots, and the words seemed trapped inside her. She laid her handbag atop the table, the lipstick tube concealed from her mother. She reached inside, removed her wallet, and opened it. The billfold was empty.

Her mother could not contain her disapproval. “Alicia, how many times have I told you never to go around without a dollar to your name?”

“Mom, please.”

“You should always have a little cash. What if you had a flat tire or an emergency?”

“If there’s an emergency, I have a fully loaded nine-millimeter pistol. Mom, can you please just listen?” It was a tone she rarely used with her parents, and her mother was clearly taken aback.